A Hairball a Day
by Eilidh17
Summary: Kidfic. The ongoing adventures of Danny and his ragdoll kitten, Isis. Jack is not a happy camper. If you want to read Isis' other adventures go to my stories Isis and The Catbird Seat. No cats or fish were harmed during this story... much.


I'm over this.

Seriously, seriously, over it all.

I have hairball deposits in the most insane locations! I mean, how the heck can a cat leave a hairball behind the couch which is flush to the living room wall? Oh, yes, I can see it now: Like Popeye in a spinach factory, Pain in the Mikta (AKA Isis the ragdoll kitten… pfft… such a fine example to her breed) lifts the couch with one paw while salaciously checking for detractors to her carefully thought-out plan, and levering it to one side, scampers in and hacks up a grapefruit-sized offering. Naturally, after ensuring she's also left a gracious amount of body fluid with said hairball, she hauls the couch back into place and sashays off to her next strategically chosen location.

So, like a heat seeking missile tracking its fury target, I've cleaned the house of hairballs, glared menacingly at the cat (shoulda called her Hathor), and threatened her with all sorts of nasty outcomes if I find anymore.

Cat oven mitts. Cat steering wheel cover. Cat slippers. Cat toilet seat cover. Her pelt really does give me a variety of domestic options, none of which fazes her when I read out my long and extensive list. Nope, like a true Queen, she swishes her tail at me and heads for her scratching post – the leg of my new leather couch.

Out comes my yo-yo! I've added a few more tricks to my repertoire now. Instead of 'walking the dog', I have 'flicking the cat'. Remember the old 'around the world' move? Yes, siree, I've modified that to 'around Mikta's legs'. I was aiming for her neck but a disapproving howl from Daniel took that option away.

Anyway, the hairball issue is dead and buried for the moment because Isis has fallen ill. Daniel is mortified as he cradles her head in his lap and strokes her thick coat with his jam covered hands. Isis, on the other hand is turning blue. Okay, so she's got grey fur and I can't tell what color she's turning but the bulging eyeballs are a bit of a dead giveaway. In that precious way that kids like to show their affection for their favorite plaything, he's got one hand on her coat and the other hand clamped around her neck. I like this kid!

"Daniel," I groan out as he raises one hand towards me in a gross game of show and tell while Isis dangles mercilessly from the other. "That's real cute, buddy, but how about giving kitty to daddy, huh?"

Giving kitty to daddy? What am I saying! I know I've got a pair of chainmail gloves around here somewhere.

Daniel nods his answer with a series of over exaggerated head bobs and drops Isis uncaringly to the floor. So, she started with nine lives… minus the one she lost the day we got her, that whole catbird issue… I'm counting six left after today's throttling and subsequent freefall.

So, while I scoop up my cat hair-palmed kitty tormentor and head for the bathroom, Isis shakes off her latest brush with death (note that I didn't have a role in it – go me!) and treats herself to a back scratch courtesy of the coffee table. Darn, should have polished it!

Daniel loves having a bath. I mean REALLY loves having a bath. His little legs virtually quiver with anticipation of a bubble explosion from his marauding yellow ducks as they march from one end of the tub to the other. Which explains why he's giving me one mighty pissy stare as I hug him to my chest and run his hands under the faucet.

"Sorry, buddy," I offer indifferently to his wails of protests and looks longingly at the bathtub. "Your hands are dirty, not your whole body."

"Ba!"

"Yep, and it'll be there tonight when the rest of you has caught up to your hands."

"Ba! Ba!"

"Blacksheep!" Geez, I'm replying in nursery rhymes! If the marines could only see me now.

My obscure answer got the desired response though as Daniel stopped pawing the air and blinked up at me through teary eyes, his brow so furrowed I had a 'mono brow' quip just begging to be let lose.

The rest of our impromptu hand washing moment goes without incident until we head back to the living room and what I was hoping was going to be a quiet moment of Danny playing with his toys while I read the sports notices.

Not.

Did I mention I'm over this?

She's puked everywhere. That flea-ridden, sorry excuse for a feline has heaved the entire contents of her stomach in neat little piles all around the room! There's so much, I'm surprised she didn't puke herself out of existence. An entertaining thought. I put Daniel in his playpen and stare down Miss High and Mighty as she swipes at her last gut belching effort like it's an enemy to be dealt with.

I'm not so sure it isn't.

I move in for the kill, determined to boot kitty out the door while I fumigate the house into next year, but something causes me to stop in my tacks.

Coulda sworn her last pile of puke moved.

Isis seems to agree as in one rather clever move, she hisses, arches her back, does that 60s afro thing with her fur, and jumps about ten feet in the air.

It did move!

So, I'm torn between running for my Beretta or calling the SGC for a zat, but hastily weighing up the lame excuses I'd have to give for calling in reinforcements, I decide the underside of my boot will probably work. A cunning plan. Yep, they don't call me Jack Cunning O'Neill for nothing.

No, really… the don't.

Armed with nothing but standard military issue boots (yes, I wear them at home… pays to be prepared for every eventuality) and today's sports pages, I quickly acquire my target. We come in peace… thwack to kill!

The mass wriggles again. I jump back. Isis has her claws firmly embedded in the couch, her tail doing that raccoon thing… and I swear there's a skunk loose in here somewhere as well, or else the cat has… I cautiously sniff the air again… yep, she's farted in fear. Double the reason to call in the fumigators.

I briefly tried that whole breathing through my mouth thing while mentally berating the cat for her lack of decency in the face of impending death, but the smell was so overpowering I started retching. Pulling my shirt up over my nose, I went in for the kill…

… and found Daniel's prized guppy flopping sickeningly on the floor amongst kitty stomach contents: remnants of a hairball, and cat chow. A quick glance at Daniel's fish bowl told a tale of woe and doomed Isis to the laundry room for the foreseeable future.

She must have sensed my ire and did a quick exit, stage left… hacking up another lung in the kitchen on the way through to the laundry.

Daniel thought the whole incident was amusing and clapped his hands at the show we'd both put on for him.

Me? I'm over it all.


End file.
